


Technicality

by Nefhiriel



Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Artificial Intelligence, F/M, Gen, Hurt Neal, Hurt/Comfort, Prompt Fill, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 10:49:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1980021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/pseuds/Nefhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to the future, where the New and Improved Marshall's system has gone electronic - and there are a few glitches. Glitches that might cost Neal his life.</p><p>OR</p><p>In which Neal is Subject NC391, and he really didn't deserve to be taken by an interceptor and put in a holding cell. He definitely didn't deserve to be effectively held hostage by a computer with heatstroke. Yet there they were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Technicality

**Author's Note:**

  * For [attackfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/attackfish/gifts).



> This is something I wrote years back for The Collar Corner, and just now got around to posting. Better late then never? :D
> 
> For attackfish's prompt:
> 
> _"Prompt/Request: Any SciFi AU that isn't a crossover or involve space.  
>  Characters: Neal, Peter, FBI, El  
> I would Like: I would like one of those twenty minutes into the future sci fi universes in which technology is just a little different, and I want it to affect Neal's anklet in some way.  
> I Don't Want: Space ships or crossovers"_
> 
> Many thanks to my beta, Imbecamiel!

Neal placed the origami crane on the dashboard, examining the folded piece of yellow paper with a critical eye. Instantly, he set to work on another piece of paper. The form of an iris gradually emerged. This, too, he set on the dashboard, his inspection of it reduced to little more than a cursory glance of disdain.

To Peter they looked the way Neal's origami always looked: exactly the way you'd expect origami made by a skilled forger to look, with perfectionism and precision in every crisp fold. But today they were clearly a source of frustration. Or at least a source of _compounded_ frustration.

“For crying out loud, Neal...” Peter’s own frustration had had plenty of time to build up after the last twenty minutes of receiving nothing but studious silence from the passenger's side of the car. “We're all hot. Try rolling up your sleeves, or taking off that noose.”

It was the wrong thing to say. Now that he'd made the suggestion there wasn't a chance of getting a response from Neal beyond the peevish stare of a six-year-old who'd skipped naptime. At least he'd had the sense to leave his suit coat back at the office. The heat was stifling enough without being forced to watch Neal cook himself to death for the sake of fashion consciousness.

With a prideful tweak of his skinny tie, Neal continued to devote himself to folding paper like it had just become an Olympic sport and he was in training to compete.

Peter sighed and retrained his sights on the entrance to the gallery. The McNally-Forsberg Center was the new kid on the block among New York's art gallery community, causing quite a stir in the few months since opening day. It showed no signs of being deposed as a favorite new mecca for art connoisseurs, hungry for something fresh and original. 

The chaotic modernist architecture might be an outward indication the whole place was far from being what Peter would consider a must-see. But that was just the opinion of a philistine. He didn't need to be told that it was exactly Neal's cup of tea—or, more precisely, his vintage glass of wine. Sitting here within range of forbidden temptation wasn't helping to improve Neal's attitude.

“If she doesn't show in another ten minutes, we'll call it a day and try to arrange for a meet tomorrow.”

“The mythical Ms. Crawford,” Neal grumbled in regards to the no-show status of their supposedly willing informant. “You sure she's not a figment of the FBI's imagination?” 

Peter smiled at the word “imagination” in connection with the FBI at large.

“Right. Never mind.”

“You'd think after choosing such an out-of-the way meeting place she'd have the decency not to let the risk of heat stroke keep her from showing up.”

“You'd think so,” Neal agreed, “Not a bad place to spend the day, either.” His expression turned wistful as he looked up from his origami to watch the steady trickle of visitors going in and out, keeping the automatic doors busy. He took a deep breath before shrugging off at least some of his sulkiness. “Still, it's been a break from breathing in the petrol fumes.”

“I thought you lived on petrol fumes, city boy.”

Neal made a face. “Ninety-five degrees in New York City comes with too many other smells attached.”

Peter had to agree. Visiting suburbia every now and then was kind of nice, and apparently it was a view shared by many. What seemed at first like an oddly rural choice of locale for an elite art gallery had seemed only to serve to make it all the more unique. The psychology of the choice was rather ingenious now that he thought about it. After all, a simple trip became a pilgrimage when you had to get in the car and drive for the better part of an hour.

It was too bad their own pilgrimage had landed on a particularly sweltering day during a full week of above-average July humidity. With any luck tomorrow's forecast of heavy rain would give them the break they needed from air that felt muggier than a crowded locker room.

Rolling up the windows, through which hardly a shy breeze had come calling, Peter reached for the A/C. They'd earned the right to burn some money.

Neal tilted the passenger side fan so that it blew against his face. “If you ask me, Uncle Sam could've spent some quality cash on outfitting federal agents with updated means of transportation before lavishing so much love on the U. S. Marshalls’ overhaul for all these years. Someone’s obsessed about heaping cash on the project.”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “I take it you're not enjoying the new and improved jewelry.”

“If by 'new and improved' you mean, 'pinches and rubs worse than the last model' then, yeah, I _love_ it. I can tell they had comfort in mind while they were debugging it this time.” Neal scowled. “I can hardly get a sock on and off it's so tight.”

“There's always the implant.”

Neal's scowl didn’t deepen, it froze into something not quite like fear, then subtly shifted into careful indifference. “Yeah,” he shrugged, “sure, there’s always _that_.”

Now Peter felt like the one being childish, letting the heat and the long wait goad him into making short-tempered quips. It was a cheap shot that should’ve been beneath him. He worried a finger along his jaw and the sandpaper roughness of a five-o-clock shadow.

“Don’t, Peter. Just don’t,” Neal warned, wearily. “I know it’s not your idea. And the Marshalls have got to be hounding you to hound me about the ‘advantages’ of getting one.”

“Only with the persistence of a telemarketer from hell.”

That sparked a laugh out of Neal. “I guess it’s only a matter of time, then.”

“Not a chance.” Peter didn’t falter. He met Neal’s look. “For one thing, Mozzie would kill me in an ugly, ugly way if I caved.”

“Technically,” Neal let the full weight of irony rest on the pun, “the caving would be my fault.” 

“Tempted to change with the times, Caffrey?” 

Neal pretended to shiver, or at least he covered the shiver well with an expression of levity. “Shoot me first, Peter, promise?” He sounded far to earnest for Peter’s comfort.

“Again, all I see in it for me is a gory death.” Times might be changing, and Mozzie wasn’t immune, but neither was he willing to give an inch when it came to some “advances,” and if he’d hated the government before, now he detested everything it stood for on a level that few could compete with. The worst part of it was that Peter was beginning to understand his paranoia. With fewer qualms, he approved of Mozzie’s stance as Neal’s avid defender—fun-sized for an avenging angel, but not harmless by any means.

It was really no surprise that Neal had yet to show signs of adapting to the times, either. He preferred doing things the old-fashioned way. Down to the day he’d been arrested, Neal had preferred lock picks and safe-cracking by touch and hearing over using newfangled, cheap-shot gadgets. Peter would never tell him, but a part of him could respect Neal’s dedication to his “trade” as an art. It was what made Neal so good—so difficult to catch. So intriguing to chase. He didn’t cut corners, and if he stole, he stole for more than the money.

If Neal hated the anklet, though, then he loathed the idea of being implanted with an MDB microchip, and it wasn’t purely out of a distaste for technology, either. Peter couldn't blame him. Despite the pros of no longer having to wear an anklet, the reputation of the “dog tag” (as it was fondly nicknamed due to its similarities to the microchips used on pets to store data and a GPS tracker) was surrounded by enough horror stories about government mind-control to make Mozzie go white as a sheet at the mere thought of Neal agreeing to use one.

It was also much easier to _get_ an implant than it was to have one _removed_. Surgical removal was predictably illegal, at least without a Mount Everest's worth of paperwork being signed off on. Backroom deals, paying off surgeons to perform the operation illegally, only led to triggered alarms and immediate recapture before the patient even had a chance to come around from the anesthetics. In those cases, the repeat offender had been known to be sentenced to an “unspecified term of continued preventative oversight,” meaning the implant might never be removed. Even when it was deemed that the “preventative oversight” was unnecessary, deactivation rather than removal was preferable—though not, obviously, to the one stuck with a supposedly-inert microchip that could be reactivated at the say-so of a government agency.

That was only part of the problem with what the office of U. S. Marshalls had become as Peter saw it. Neal was no Luddite, and generally speaking Peter wouldn't consider himself one, either. Back when all the changes had come, fast and furious, his generation had been snickered at for being naysayers trying to stand in the way of progress. People had claimed it was no different than the switch from hardcopy to electronics in paperwork. They’d made a lot of claims and promises. But some things should be kept sacred from technology's reach. Call him old school (and they _did_ ), but there were certain jobs were simply meant to always be done by hand. _Human_ hand.

Back in the good old days, a tracking anklet had been a simple matter of insurance against the escape of probationaries like Neal: a way for the Marshalls to keep an eye on them. Now, although the changes were clearly around for the long haul, Peter still couldn't shake a distinct dislike for the tracking devices and what they had come to represent. Despite the streamlined almost-beauty of the increasingly slim and foolproof devices, Peter felt like he was implementing high-tech shackles every time he presented Neal with the “latest and greatest” model. Someone in Washington was excited about the things, though, because “improvements” kept coming, usually in tandem with yet more legislature being passed regarding the rights—or increasingly concerning lack thereof—of ex-convicts.

It all gave him a vague and uneasy feeling he would never share with Neal. Neal needed to believe in the system, insofar as he'd ever “believed” in it—at least until he was out of it, _legally_. That much Peter would stand by for the time being.

“I'll see if I can get permission to loosen it up a bit,” Peter said, observing Neal's stiff posture and the way he'd turned away to gaze in the opposite direction. More than anything, he hated being the face that represented high-handed bureaucracy that he didn't always agree with. He hated the fact that sometimes it felt like Neal blamed him, because he was there in the day-to-day to _be_ blamed. Then again, maybe that was just his own self-respect being abraded by malaise and his increasing frustration with the system. Neal might be a little worn lately, and fleetingly resentful, but he wasn’t bitter.

Neal turned with a half-hearted smile. “Thanks.” There was nothing half-hearted about the gratitude in his eyes. “I'd appreciate that.”

A polite Neal Caffrey could melt a heart of stone—and didn’t Neal Caffrey know it. But Peter was all too familiar with that particular manipulation tactic, and he couldn't see any traces of it now. The weariness behind the politeness didn't set right. Honesty was a strange and unsettling look on Neal.

It was ironic, really, because for all the times he'd wished Neal would stop clowning around and treating the world like his personal playground, he didn't relish the sight of a somber Neal Caffrey as much as he should have. Instead, it was disheartening. Neal was _irrepressible_ , bouncing back from a lecture as if lectures bounced off _him_.

On a whim, Peter pulled out his wallet and produced a UCC ten. “Here.” He proffered the rectangular strip of thin plastic “Universal Consumer Credit” between two fingers. Despite the government's oh-so-cleverly reassuring new name for cash, it would always feel like play money, albeit internationally-accredited play money. “I think we've earned ourselves some ice cream.”

There it was: the spark of incorrigibility back in Neal’s eyes like it'd never left. Peter felt rather pleased with himself as Neal accepted the money like he'd been handed the keys to the kingdom. Or the Met. Sometimes, for all his expensive tastes, Caffrey could be one cheap date.

“You want sprinkles with that, Special Agent Burke?”

“And a cherry on top. Don't show your face back here without 'em.”

Neal gave an irreverent salute and jogged across the street towards the vendor on the corner. Peter rolled his eyes as a group of pretty twenty-somethings approached the vendor at the same time as Neal, making Neal's day by giving him a chance to show off some chivalry to good effect as he gestured for them to go ahead of him. 

The approach of a sleek interceptor diverted Peter's attention. Despite possessing the graceful looks of a miniature stealth bomber, land-bound and sans wings, there was always something jarring about the sight of the vehicles-cum-tank-wannabes. To him they were a visual ambush that would always be out of place no matter how commonplace they became. But maybe that was just the old-school naysayer in him refusing to succumb.

Peter frowned as it pulled to a stop in front of the McNally-Forsberg Centre. Even idling, its engine emitted a low thrum that radiated vibrations Peter could feel _,_ like the pounding base of a car with its stereo turned up too loud. He watched as the tinted glass canopy retracted and one of the gullwing doors eased open with a blip of noise that reminded Peter of a garbage truck backing up.

As the AI Marshall Drone stepped from the interceptor and started to walk towards the vendor, Peter's curiosity morphed into concern. Unless the last debugging had involved programming the AIs to crave ice cream or hotdogs—and to be able to _eat_ them—then Neal had to be in trouble of some kind. It made no sense, though. He hadn't gotten any update about Neal's status, or a mention of any kind about a problem.

Peter opened his door with an angry jerk, impatiently forced to wait for traffic to clear. He could hear the AI talking to Neal, but the words were indistinct from where he was, except for something about “loitering” and “for reviewal.” Peter knew what that meant. Nothing good.

The Marshalls' office was supposed to conduct their operations through _him,_ or at the very least they were supposed to keep him in the loop regarding their actions. Always. No exceptions. Hughes had promised that he'd set things up with the Marshalls to keep Peter from being in the dark about their movements as regarded Neal. In the dark, like he was now. Call him old-school, a naysayer, _and_ a control freak, but this kind of unexpected interference would never stop making him feel like he was being walked all over, and walked all over by a computer-operated drone of all things.

By now, everyone else had casually cleared out from the immediate area as quickly as a school of fish creating a path for a shark. Anyone coming down the sidewalk towards the McNally-Forsberg Centre crossed the street or turned around at the sight of the interceptor and its disembarked AI.

The burst of a heavier pulse joined the vibrating hum of the engine as the integrated laser on the drone's chest activated. Shrieking in a migraine-inducing high overtone, a white stripe of light scanned Neal from head to toe, as summarily and impersonally as a barcode scanner at the grocery store registering an item for purchase. Peter's last glimpse of Neal's face was of his expression turning from still-protesting question to faintly alarmed frustration. After a last hiss of static noise, a waver like a heat mirage ribboned across the air between Neal and the interceptor. There were a few hiccups, the after-image of Neal flickered and blinked almost comically, about as impressive as a movie projection gone haywire. Then he was gone altogether.

Peter hurried back into the car. There would be no getting Neal released now, not until he was brought to the Marshalls’ base where he could be reintegrated by one of the mainframe computers.

The interceptor was on the move instantly, and so was he. He nearly hit a minivan as he swerved into traffic, swearing distractedly, then groaning at the sight of two cars already between him and the interceptor. 

Thankfully, however, AIs were nothing if not conscious of speed limits and stop signs. With a “subject” contained in the holding tank, as helpless as a string of computer code could be, there was no rush. All thanks to the wonders of the modern age—and his tax dollars—at work.

The nearest SHC—Substation Holding Cell—was a good fifteen-minute drive, during which Peter had time to fume, and to call Diana on his cell to demand answers she couldn't provide. She let his anger roll off her like water off a duck, telling him without heat that she'd talk to Hughes, but at present there was nothing from the Marshalls concerning Neal. There was no news at all to be had.

At the SHC, the interceptor pulled directly into its interior stall, leaving Peter to park out front of the cinder block and steel building. There were supposedly some more aesthetically pleasing versions being built in DC, and a makeover was purported to be on its way next to NYC. Peter had already given his two cents to the bureau on that idea—namely, that he didn’t see how making the SHCs _prettier_ was doing anything but dressing up an ugly problem. Peter knew his suggestions fell on deaf ears, because precious few people saw the new Marshalls’ system as an “ugly problem.”

The building’s interior was nominally better visually. If, by “better,” you meant fancy gadgets that trilled orders at you like an electronic bird as you submitted first to an iris scan, then a fingerprint scan, and finally a badge scan. Peter opened his digital ID, slipping it into the slot in the panel next to double-doored entrance to the building. He tapped one-fingered on the small keypad attached to his ID, inputting the code and finally hearing the beep-click-whoosh of the doors opening.

Sterile white really wasn't Peter's thing, and in the case of the long hall he had to walk, and the circular room it led to, the white was blindingly impersonal. Phantom hospital smells seemed to haunt the place. Maybe it was just the utilitarian atmosphere. His shoes squeaked with every step taken across the spotless floor.

“ _Welcome, Special Agent Burke,”_ greeted the androgynous voice of the mainframe computer as Peter passed the second set of automatic doors that ushered him into the inner sanctum of the substation. _“The time of your arrival has been logged. How may I be of service?”_

Peter knew if he gave in to anger at that moment he'd be of no use to Neal. Computers couldn't truly appreciate temper tantrums, after all. He'd already had plenty of opportunities in the past to try intimidating a computer, and it was about as effective as beating your head repeatedly against a wall, and less therapeutic besides.

“I'm here to retrieve Subject NC391.” The clinical phrasing always left a bad taste in his mouth. He said it anyway, loud and precise. He could cooperate in the interests of getting his way more quickly. That was something he’d been learning more and more about, until some days _he_ felt like the con man, lying through his teeth at every turn.

“ _Retrieval of Subject_ NC391 _unavailable.”_

“Well _make_ it available.” 

“ _Option unavailable,”_ stonewalled the disembodied voice. 

“Why?”

“ _Subject is up for reviewal.”_

“I'm the agent responsible for _Subject_ NC391. Why wasn't I contacted about a reviewal?”

“ _The option was unavailable.”_

“Care to tell me _why_?”

“ _Your inquiry does not compute with the current program. The system does not care.”_

Peter almost snorted at that.

“ _However, information is available.”_

“Share, by all means.”

“ _The mainframe communications network is unavailable.”_

Peter was one _unavailability_ away from just the kind of outburst that would do him absolutely no good. 

“Then I suggest you get your communications network available.”

“ _Thank you for your suggestion. Suggestion logged as Class 8.”_

So, the communications network gets broken, but the virtual suggestions box stays in working order. Naturally. Still, on a scale from 1-10, Class 8 was pretty close to being deemed a viable and helpful suggestion. It would have to wait for Class 10 approval to be finalized. But, still. He should be flattered.

Maybe he could amp up the persuasive elocution.

“I further _suggest_ you get Subject NC391 out here, pronto.” 

“ _Thank you for your suggestion. Suggestion logged as Class 3.”_  

Peter swore.

“ _Emotional disturbance detected. Are you currently under outside duress, Special Agent Burke?”_

“You’re the only one _duressing_ anyone around here,” he growled.

There was a moment’s silence as the machine processed that as a negative. Then,

“ _Do you have another suggestion, Special Agent Burke?”_

Peter could've sworn the thing sounded eager as a lonely kid without someone to talk to—like it had been waiting all its life for an irate FBI agent to come and yell so many interesting suggestions at it. All of which only helped along Peter's mounting “emotional disturbance.” The computers supposedly possessed basic reasoning abilities, with built-in algorithms meant to teach the AIs emotions through observing cause-and-effect. Foremost among these programed “emotions,” the mainframe computers, as well as the AI Marshalls, were meant to emulate a pseudo-“compassion” that would prevent them from needlessly taking human lives. 

That information made it just that much easier for Peter to imagine an ounce or two of condescension being in the mix whenever a computer threw clinical phrases at him. Maybe the geeks who'd designed the computers had decided that adding in a little extra programming to make the computers talk down to Federal Agents had been the perfect finishing touch. Good for laughs all around.

But Peter could play this game. He knew the techno-speak. More or less. “Why was Subject NC391 taken for reviewal in the first place?”

“ _Subject_ _NC391_ _was found loitering near a suspicious location without a permit.”_

“What?”

“ _Subject_ _NC391_ _was found loitering near a suspicious location—”_

“—without a permit. Yeah, I got it.” Peter could only assume that said “suspicious location” was the McNally-Forsberg Centre, and that the final act of Neal's “loitering” had been to get out of the car and move closer in order to stand in line at the vendor. It made a certain amount of sense—from the point of view of an undiscriminating computer “brain” running on algorithms that had probably been written by Vulcans.

“Right. Well you can let him go now. I ordered him to loiter near the suspicious location, and I'm his handler so I can do that.”

“ _Records indicate you are correct. Access granted.”_

“Great.” 

“ _However, Subject_ _NC391_ _is not available. Please return in forty-three hours. Subject_ _NC391_ _will then be available for retrieval.”_

“Forty-three hours?” he repeated incredulously.

“ _Affirmative.”_

Peter sighed, glancing the around the windowless room with its rows of wall-mounted monitors and the uninterrupted curved ledge beneath for the corresponding keyboards. There was even the homey addition of a scattering of generic rolling office chairs, breaking up the white theme with their black artificial leather like rude interlopers. 

Forty-three hours in a holding cell would undoubtedly feel like a lifetime to Neal. It wouldn't kill him—but that wasn't the point. The point was the principle of the matter. The point was that computers weren't suited to run an agency, not without a whole lot of oversight. The point was... Well, _the point_ was a lot of things. Including the fact that Peter hated the look Neal wore every time he was released after he'd unwillingly booked himself a suite at a maximum-security substation. In many ways, these holding cells were worse than the actual prisons. They were little more than (high-tech, and extremely secure) boxes for quick containment purposes. 

Neal had never mentioned the utter lack of human contact in an unmanned place like this, or what kind of hell that must've made it for a guy who lived and breathed to be integral to whatever social sphere he was landed in, however limited that “society” might be. Neal didn't have to say anything. The fact that Neal didn’t say any of it spoke louder to Peter than if he _had_ said something. The computer might know how to keep a “subject” fed on a diet perfectly balanced in nutrition, and of appropriate caloric content to support an adult male, but somehow Neal still always managed to come out of containment looking starved.

Neal hadn’t done anything wrong, and Peter wasn't about to shrug off forty-three hours of being treated like a “Subject” as just a piece of rotten luck, or merely the sort of acceptable error you could expect from artificial stupidity. It _was_ artificial stupidity, and rotten luck. But he wasn't going to tell Neal to cowboy up. He was tired of deferring to a machine.

“Why forty-three hours?” Peter demanded. He knew for a fact that a “reviewal” could take a matter of an hour or two. It was possible there were other “subjects” currently taking priority—but _that_ many seemed improbable.

“ _Forty-three hours is the time estimated until all systems will be fully functioning.”_

Peter frowned. “How much of the system are we talking about, exactly? What's the problem?”

“ _The system is experiencing widespread difficulties.”_

Peter couldn't help but feel like the computer was hedging. “Give me a list.”

It could've been his imagination, but the AI seemed to pause, no doubt in order to double-check the company line to use in response to short-tempered agents with too many questions. Bureaucratic computers.

“ _The system cannot divulge that information at this time. Diagnostics are currently in progress. Upon completion, an evaluation will be completed by the system.”_

“Look, can you at least let me talk to him?”

“ _You are indicating Subject_ _NC391_ _?”_

“Yes. I _am_.”

“ _Subject_ _NC391_ , _on screen,”_ the computer informed him, as the screen directly in front of Peter came to life. _“Intercom connection established.”_

The cell was like a million others, without personality or furniture. The “bed” was more like a shelf built into the shiny white plastic-but-not-plastic material that the entire room was made out of. The sink, likewise, was built into the corner. The lack of a door was always a jarring realization. Considering the computers didn't need a door—simply materializing the “subject” into the room via the interceptor's information stream—it made a certain kind of sense to eliminate all possibility of an escape route. Deliberately or not, the byproduct was that the psychological factor had to make the room seem twice as small as it really was.

There was no lock to pick. No guard to sweet talk. There weren't even bars to gaze through. In other words, it was the kind of cell that should've given Peter complete and utter peace of mind when it came to containing an escape artist like Neal. Instead, it put him on edge.

Neal sat on the bed, his back against the wall, clutching the edges of the gray blanket around his shoulders.

“Neal?”

Neal's head snapped up at the sound of Peter's voice, fixing on the ceiling where Peter knew he could see camera that was the mainframe computer's window into the cell. 

“Can you hear me okay?”

“Yeah, I can hear you,” Neal replied, his voice coming back to Peter with a faint echo attached. “Any chance you could get me off the loitering charge?”

“I'm working on it.”

“Great. So...when do I get out?” Neal's tone was deceptively casual, too flat to be truly nonchalant.

“Hopefully in a couple of hours.”

“Hours?”

“Forty, at least, if the _system_ has its way.”

Neal's expression was studiously blank. “Peter...”

“I know. Like I said, I'm working on it, believe me. I'll contact Hughes and see if he can find a way to hurry up the reviewal process.” Peter shrugged apologetically, then realized Neal wouldn't be able to see the gesture and added, “I just wanted you to know I'm on it. I'll have you out as soon as possible.”

Neal was silent a moment before saying, almost with embarrassment, “Thanks. It’s just…it's freezing in here. Making that happen sooner rather than later would be a really good idea.” 

The plaintive note in Neal's tone caught Peter off guard. Neal whined, frequently. He wheedled, and he made puppy-dog eyes, and he rolled his eyes when he didn’t get his way. Neal didn’t plead—not quietly, like he was trying his hardest not to appear pathetic. 

“The system—” Peter began.

“—Isn't usually helpful, particularly not to inmates, and today’s no exception. I keep asking it to bump up the heat. It's not answering me.” 

Peter knew from hearing Neal describe it that the disintegration/reintegration process was just loads of fun—on equal footing with having a hangover, or coming down with the flu. Neal, post-incarceration, ate double- and triple-portions of food, like he was on the brink of actual starvation. He took Tylenol when it was handed to him, wore at least three layers for the next day or two, and walked with an economy of grace, like every movement hurt. So Peter wasn't surprised to see Neal hunched in misery, like he’d been punched in the gut, and then sucker-punched again.

No, Peter wasn’t surprised, not to find Neal whisked off to the substation, and not to find him looking so abruptly subdued. The holding cells were used as casually as a timeout corner might be used by a humorlessly legalistic schoolteacher. This wasn’t the first time Neal had been grounded for being the class clown, instead of an actual breach of his parole. According to Hughes, the fact that Neal was such a high flight-risk meant that he was recorded as high alert, monitored at the highest level, and given the least leeway. On the one hand, that kind of no-nonsense approach to security was enough to give any handler perfect peace of mind. On the other hand, it turned ice cream stops into trips to walk-in-freezer cells, and forty hours of unmerited isolation and punishment.

Peter was angry. He’d joined the FBI to prevent injustice from happening, and he was dead tired of this _insanity_ , and all too ready to have a tangible reason to vent.

“Hey! Computer!”

“ _How may I assist you, Special Agent Burke?”_ the computer piped up immediately. The more irritated Peter became, the calmer it seemed to sound.

“Give him some heat in there.”

“ _You are indicating Subject_ _NC391_ _?”_

“Just _do_ it.” Now that Neal was listening in, Peter had even less patience for maintaining a clinical modus operandi just to suit some fluently bureaucratic-speaking AI. The computer knew _exactly_ what he was talking about.

“ _Option unavailable.”_

“Let me guess,” Peter said tersely, “that part of the system's down, too?”

“ _Correct, Special Agent Burke,”_ it all but beamed at him.

If it so much as _tried_ to give him a lollipop and a sticker, Peter was going to start shooting things. 

“I thought this system was supposed to monitor each subjects' body heat, and adjust the climate to keep the temperature at a suitable level.” Yeah. He'd read the tome-sized manual all right. Nobody could accuse him of not doing his homework. 

“ _Correct.”_  

“Then do your job. Fix it.”

“ _Suggestion, Class 10, already in progress.”_

Peter nodded, moderately placated. “Got an ETA on that?” 

“ _Estimated time of completion: thirty-eight hours.”_ It must've sensed an outburst from Peter on the way—diplomatic little servant of the public that it was—and added sweetly by way of voluntary excuse, _“Multiple Class 10 errors filed. Error queue nearing maximum capacity. Progress limited.”_

“So it's not your fault, huh?”

“ _Correct.”_

Peter muttered several sentiments of disagreement. Muttered, because he was too busy trying to think about work-arounds to bother with shouting. He pulled out his cell and dialed Diana, knowing calling her was the best way to get a message directly to Hughes with a minimum of waiting. He gave Diana the sit-rep, got an “On it, Boss,” and turned back to the monitor where Neal waited, still clutching the grey blanket.

“How about an extra blanket or ten?” Peter demanded of the computer. “Or are all the washer and driers broken, too?”

“ _Action in progress.”_

“Fantastic.” Peter watched as Neal got up stiffly, walking to the opposite side of the room where a pile of neatly folded blankets had materialized. Returning to the bed, he set about making himself a veritable nest out of them.

Peter began to pace, waiting for a call from Hughes. The blare of alarms made him start. The polite, distant alarms were silenced almost instantly, but that hardly reassured Peter that everything was under control. He knew these systems were supposed to be self-sufficient, apart from tri-annual “check-ups.” It still seemed to him that an army of technicians should be hustling in about now to get to the bottom of the full queue of Class 10 errors. Hopefully, Hughes would be of the same mind after he looked into the matter. He knew Reese was an ally in this, as disenchanted as Peter was by the rapid onslaught of technology, even if Reese rarely gave a hint away about his own disquiet. Hughes couldn’t afford to be a dissenter, not if he wanted to stick around long enough to do any good.

“Computer—” Peter began.

“— _Apologies for the noise, Special Agent Burke.”_

“What's the alarm for?”

“ _Our diagnostics have encountered an error.”_  

“Don't tell me your diagnostics system is down?”

“ _Diagnostics functional,”_ the computer assured him, _“Processing unprecedented error.”_  

Peter threw his hands up in exasperation. “Terrific. And what are you going to do with it after you've processed it?”

“ _Logging unprecedented errors to Sectors 4 and 6. Code 364C1090.”_

“Well that explains everything. Thank you.”

“ _You are welcome, Special Agent Burke.”_

“That was sarcasm, for your information,” Peter griped.

“ _Would you like that information logged for the system's future reference?”_

As tempting as it might be to log his every frustration, Peter knew he didn't need it on his record come his own reviewal. “Never mind.”

“ _Information rescinded,”_ the computer replied dutifully.

“Peter?” Neal's voice drew Peter's attention back to the screen. “It said Sectors 4 and 6, right?” 

“Yeah.”

“I don't know what that code stands for, but I do know that Sector 4 has to do with handling the bulk of the computer's physical resources.”

“Meaning?”

“Food and water, Peter. It's the part of the system's 'brain' that handles the supplying. It might be able to process requests, but it's not going to be able to hand out any more blankets if it's had to shut it down. I'm surprised it was able to get me these.” He indicated the blankets around his shoulders with a tug.

Now was not the time to demand to know how Neal knew so much about the inner workings of the containment station computers. “What about Sector 6?” he asked instead.

Neal shook his head. “I'm not sure. I think it's one of the sub-sectors—something to do with detection and information sorting—but I could be wrong.” He smiled ruefully. “Maybe it's just the thermostat.”

“Is it getting colder in there?”

Neal didn't equivocate. “Yeah. Fast.”

Peter swore. Paced. Glanced at his shivering C.I.. Swore some more.

“ _Emotional disturbance detected.”_

“Nothing gets by you, does it?”

“ _The system is programmed to be multifaceted in detection and analysis.”_

“And yet so modest, too...” Peter murmured.

“ _System cannot integrate requested emotion.”_  

“Just get him out of there!” Peter growled. “You're scrap metal if you let my CI freeze to death in there.”

“ _System does not recognize—”_

“—You'll be landfill material. You do know what a landfill is, right?”

“ _Disposal of electronic devices in landfills is prohibited in the state of New York.”_

“I'll dissemble you myself.”

There was a pause, and for a moment he thought he'd just managed to scare an AI. It was a good feeling.

Then it rallied helpfully: _“Selecting sound: Binaural Beats. Tempo set: Meditation and Relaxation. Would you prefer the Classic Piano overlay, or Deep Space Ambiance?”_

Peter told it what it could do with its “binaural beats.” Predictably, it ignored him. 

There was a pulsating hum, and then classic piano music joined it, bringing him right back to all the happy moments he'd spent waiting in elevators over the course of his life.

“Nice.” Neal didn’t even appear to mean it sarcastically. “Satie's Gymnopédie.”

“ _Affirmative.”_

“A highly suitable choice.”

“ _Approval noted.”_  

Peter almost laughed: Neal Caffrey knew how to flirt with a computer. It figured.

“Is there any chance of speeding up the repairs to the climate control? Some heat in here would also be _highly_ suitable,” Neal remarked blandly.

Peter really hoped the video quality was washed out, because, in addition to shivering incessantly, Neal looked distinctly pale under the harsh light. There absolutely _must_ have been a slightly blue overlay to the color, because there was no way Neal was already that cold.

“ _Subject NC391’s last recorded core temperature indicated the opposite.”_

Neal’s only reaction to being talked about in the third person was a brief twist of his lips, followed by the light irony of a rebuttal sure to not be appreciated in the least. “Yeah, well. Subject NC391’s temperature has cooled off since then. Trust me. Try updating your records.” He hugged the blankets closer around him with a pronounced shudder, and fingers that fumbled to keep a grip on the fabric.

“ _All Subject records are currently view-only. Climate Control unresponsive due to repairs. Last records for Subject NC391_ _indicate sufficient welfare measures were taken. Changes to Subject NC391’s status to be observed and reviewed upon completion of system-wide repairs.”_

“So let me see if I’ve got this straight,” Peter cut in. “You can’t provide basic humane conditions in that cell—but the _radio_ ’s just fine?”

“ _Affirmative. The security of the Observation Area is of first priority to the system.”_

“Make _that_ _cell_ of ‘first priority.’” Peter pointed to the screen, reminded ludicrously of obedience classes, and a sweetly obstinate Satchmo in “donkey mode,” oblivious to the most basic commands. He used the same, firm _don’t-try-me_ tone that he’d learned to use then. “If you can’t get him out of there, then find a way to turn off the A/C. Now.”

“ _Processing. Please wait.”_

“Unbelievable…” Peter stalked back and forth across the room, hands on hips.

“Peter, maybe you should—”

“—I’m not leaving until this gets straightened out. You didn’t do anything wrong, Neal, and this _contraption_ had no right to make up its artificial ‘mind’ to throw the figurative key away without so much as a by-your-leave. You test the limits plenty, don’t get me wrong, and you know I’ll call you on it, each and every time. But this isn’t _right_ ,” Peter petulantly gave one of the office chairs a small shove out of his path, “and I don’t intend to just sigh, and call it a day.”

“I know, Peter. I was just...going to suggest calling Hughes. Or someone. There’s got to be override code for these situations.” Neal sounded maddeningly rational. Then again, considering his clumsy stuttering over hard consonants, and the way his shoulders had begun to jerk with particularly violent shivers, he might just be too cold to get worked up.

“Right.” Peter nodded, already pulling out his cellphone again. “There’s got to be.”

The computer interrupted: _“Process complete. Powering down Cell 301A.”_

The light in Neal’s cell blinked out. There was a vacuum cleaner hum, and a mechanized clank. Then everything was quiet on the other end of the comm. The music tittered on overhead.

After a beat, Neal said, “Good news, Peter, there’s no more cold air coming in.”

Peter could hear the edge to his voice. “Neal?”

“There’s no air at _all_ coming in. I think life-support’s down.”

Before Peter could respond, the AI enquired attentively, _“Query for Agent Burke: terminate intercom connection?”_

“Don’t you _dare_ ,” Peter barked.

Before he could demand life-support be turned back on, something above in the machinery of the system began to move—a sound felt more than heard, like the building was coming to life, or priming to launch something. Mottled blue lighting appeared from above in Neal’s cell, indirect and moving slowly in a circular orbit, like a time lapse display of the night sky at a planetarium.

“ _Update for Agent Burke. Repairs in progress. Please wait.”_

Thanks to the swirl of soft blue lights, Peter could at least make out Neal’s huddled figure, a dark form against the reflective interior.

“Neal—it’s working on repairs,” Peter spoke up above the hum of computers working, “I’ll have you out of there soon. Either it fixes this now, or I’ll get someone here with the authority to override it.”

Abruptly, the music cut in and out, before dying altogether.

” _Repairs…pro…ress,”_ the computer spluttered between hisses of static. _“Stand by…initiate backu…automa…res...t all syst…cooldown…”_

Then everything went dark, and even Peter’s limited view of Neal was gone. No amount of haranguing or swearing got a response from the computer. Some sort of emergency lighting flickered to life, dim and recessed far above near the ceiling and only barely helpful, creating an almost movie theater ambiance. But that was all.

Peter’s finger was poised to hit speed dial for Diana when the phone rang, a bright voice interrupting the static of dead air.

“ _Boss.”_ The reception wasn’t good, and Diana’s voice crackled. _“A Marshall should be there soon to handle the situation.”_

“Not soon enough. First the thing turns the cell into an icebox, and then life-support gets cut off altogether—and now the whole computer’s gone and died.”

“ _There’s no response at all?”_ Finally, someone sounded as concerned as Peter felt.

“None.” He clenched his teeth. “What’s the Marshall’s ETA?”

“ _Twelve minutes. How long since it cut life-support?”_

Peter shook his head. “Not long. Five, ten minutes?”

“That cell should have enough air to last Neal until help arrives.”

Peter tried to control his tone, keep it level. “ _Should_ have enough air? Diana…”

Her sigh crackled across the connection. “The Marshalls have been overwhelmed by a whole slew of emergency calls today. Apparently the high humidity and heat has been causing some widespread system glitches to the mainframe computer. The whole system’s been enduring massive overheating, resulting in erratic behavior, and a lot of the substations haven’t been responsive to remote overrides.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that there should be enough air in that cell to keep Neal alive for an hour or so, at _least_ , right?”

“Right. Unless the AI decides to be clever about it and vent all available cool air into the central hub in an attempt to cool down the system as quickly as possible. Some of the AIs are different models—based on different algorithms, to respond more intelligently to different circumstances. But NYC405B—the one you’re at—is newer, and still somewhat experimental. It isn’t exactly a prototype, but neither has it had a true trial by fire like this.”

“But they do know how to deal with it, right?”

“The Marshalls haven’t dealt with that exact model yet, and they need to be there in person to have full, direct access to the system’s controls. But they claim they _do_ have it under control.” 

“Doesn’t sound like it from here.”

“Not from here, either, Boss. They also mentioned that, of the substations they have successfully dealt with, the next nearest model in make and AI development to this one has definitely been experiencing…priority issues.”

“Priority issues,” Peter returned flatly.

“Let’s just say that when push comes to shove, by its way of thinking the system trumps the inmates. So if resources vital to repairing the system are being ‘stolen’ for another purpose… Well, they might view the inmates as calculated losses. It’s not supposed to work like that, according to the tech I talked to. His best guess is that the AI’s ‘personality’ evolved in an unforeseen direction.”

“A cowardly computer,” Peter said darkly, “imagine that.” A pang of belated conscience prompted him to ask, “Anyone else stuck in this death trap?”

“No. An interceptor picked up three inmates this morning, and although another interceptor was headed that way, the whole substation crashed before it arrived. So it’s just Caffrey.”

Peter sighed. “Just Caffrey.”

Diana promised to keep her finger on the pulse of the situation, and call him with any updates. Peter hung up and prowled, occasionally demanding answers from an impervious machine, and always keeping an eye on the black screen for signs of life.

U.S. Marshall Sigel arrived with sweaty handshake and a steely look that dared Peter to be the next dissatisfied “customer” to lodge a complaint against the management. If Peter hadn’t been so angry and worried, he might’ve felt sympathetic. Being the face of an agency on said agency’s bad days was never easy position to be in.

Peter said simply: “I just want my CI out of here. Yesterday.”

“I’m been apprised of the situation. We’re doing our upmost to assure the safety of everyone involved in this problem.” Sigel used a screwdriver to open a metal plate on the wall. A rather low-tech-looking console was revealed. There were no glowing trays full of multi-colored crystals, or any other particularly hopeful signs of magical glowing _anything_. So much for a simple “FIX IT” button. 

“Circuit breaker switch?” Peter asked over his shoulder, gauging the array of switches and buttons and wires.

Sigel spared him a withering look of condescension. He couldn’t be thatmuch younger then Peter, but it was the look of a teenager bored by an older generation that didn’t stand a chance of keeping up with the sharp learning curve of an increasingly technological era.

“In a manner of speaking, yes. If you want to be reductive about it.” Sigel punched numbers into a keypad and flipped two switches in quick succession. “But don’t get ahead of the game. It’s not _that_ easy.”

Light flooded back into the room and the computers began to boot up. Sigel was instantly at one of the computers, tapping at the keyboard with precise jabs of his fingers.

Peter was instantly back in front of the monitor that had given him his last glimpse of Neal. It didn’t resume the feed.

“I need a visual on Caffrey’s cell.”

Sigel didn’t look up—he hardly responded, other than to make a low grumbling noise at the back of his throat—but a few moments later Peter got what he’d asked for, in a manner of speaking. The cell was completely dark now, without even the incidental blue lighting from above.

Sigel darted a sidelong glance at the dark video feed, and before Peter could comment said tersely, “I’m working on it.”

Peter repressed a heated comeback. Sigel was clearly working as fast as he could.

“Intercom?” he asked, instead.

“Unavailable.”

Several minutes later white light illuminated the small room and Peter could see Neal, seated on the floor with his back against the shelf/cot, legs drawn up, clinging to the blankets in a death grip. He turned his face towards the light, and now the bluish tint to his skin was unmistakable. He was still breathing, at least, but it was clearly a labored effort. Colorless lips murmured a single word, repeatedly, and Peter didn’t need a functioning comm to know what he was saying. _Peter_.

“We need to get him out of there.” The anger bled from Peter, replaced by something colder. He didn’t care if he was repeating himself. He didn’t care if Sigel heard the fear in his voice.

Sigel glanced at Neal, nodded, lips pressed together into a thin line. He stood. “The computer’s in cool down, and the backup power supply isn’t enough to get life-support back online.”

“Then—”

“—No, I can’t just _beam_ him out of there. You don’t get it. If I run out of juice halfway through the process, who knows what’ll happen to him.”

“I thought the reintegration process was foolproof. Perfectly _safe,_ ” Peter accused.

“It is safe. Generally speaking. But with the system experiencing massive failure like this…”

“Then it’s _not_ safe.”

Sigel’s nostrils flared as he took a deep breath. “In the condition it’s in, I don’t trust this substation to store data properly.”

By “data” Peter knew he meant “Neal.”

“You have to do _something_ , fast. I don’t care what you have to break in order to do it.”

“There’s no question of that. I wouldn’t sacrifice a life for a computer,” Sigel snapped. “It’s just a matter of determining the best way. I need the substation operational, if only for ten minutes, and I’m not going to be able to properly oversee that from here.” He headed for the door. “Wait here.”

“Not likely.” Peter strode after him.

They headed down the hallway, veering off from the main “visitors” entrance and taking a right through sequence of doors that required Sigel’s repeated (far too time-consuming) authorization.

“I have a plan, Agent Burke.” Sigel showed off not inconsiderable skill by typing in the password on the keypad while talking at the same time. “I need you to call for medical help and go to the reintegration chambers where you’d usually collect an inmate.”

Sigel's aloof attitude was far from reassuring. It was as if he knew exactly what he had to do, and exactly what repercussions he might be incurring.

Sigel must've sensed his reluctance, because he said in an irritated rush, “Look, Agent Burke. I'm going to get your CI out of there by the safest, fastest means possible. Yes, there's a risk—there's an even grater risk to his life if I do nothing at all. I can't makethe variables go away just because you don't like them.”

Peter clenched his jaw, nodded. Sigel wasn't The System personified. He was just one guy doing the best he could in a lousy situation. Peter just hated being in the dark like this; hated knowing Neal might be dying from asphyxiation in that cell, and the best call Peter could make was to rely upon a stranger’s ability to get a computer—suffering from _heatstroke_ —to cooperate. 

“I'll use the comms to give you further instructions should the need arise.” With that, Sigel strode off, leaving Peter do as instructed.

Peter had just reached a juncture in the hall, where a circular landing branched off in five directions, when Sigel's strained voice came across the overhead speakers: _“Change in plans, Burke. I have no choice. This thing’s navigational controls are all over the place. I’ve got a good power boost available, and Caffrey should reintegrate just fine, but the location's changed. Head to facility 5A.”_

Peter bit back yet more angry retaliations. As bad as “navigational controls” being “all over the place” sounded, he had to trust Sigel. He didn’t have a choice, either.

He turned his back to the spur he would have taken, and headed for facility 5A, and within seconds was answering a dispatcher’s barrage of questions as he moved at a jog.

It appeared that facility 5A was, for all intents and purposes, a laundry room. A monochromatically graylaundry room, with giant stainless steel drums—full of water, and chemicals, and cleaners—as well as long matching stainless steel tables, and conveyer belts. Everywhere there were pipes, and chutes, and bale-like bundles of starch-stiff gray blankets stacked in perfect rows beneath the robotic claws that dangled from tracks on the ceiling.

“Sigel, this had better work...” he muttered to thin air, waiting, the dispatcher’s calm words (“What’s that, Sir? Is there a new development? _Sir_? Hold on. Help will be there soon.”) rolling over him in a meaningless drone from the other end of the line.

“ _He should be there… Now,”_ Sigel disembodied voice informed from above.

“Well he’s not!” Peter shouted in the direction of the ceiling, sick and tired of being talked to by clinical voices that claimed to know what they were doing. He was sick and tired of this drama hitting new snags at every turn, when those snags might very well cost Neal’s life. “He’s _not here_!” he shouted again, unsure if Sigel could even hear him.

Then, suddenly, Neal _was_ there. For a gut-churning moment Neal’s image flickered as he fell. Then the gut-churning realization was just _that_ : Neal was falling instead of being reintegrated on his feet like he should’ve been.

With heaps of blankets around, it could have still turned out well. _Could_ have. But, no. This was turning into the day Murphy’s Law became fact.

Peter darted forward as Neal clipped the edge of one of the metal drums with a hip before landing face-first on a conveyor belt, head smacking the metal edge with the audible thud and clank of metal and bone meeting.

It figured that the only thing working properly in the entire God-forsaken place would be the motion sensors on the conveyor belt.

As a moaning and feebly twitching Neal was moved towards a covered section of the line (that was sounded like it contained a thousand prehistoric and ravenous driers), Peter had an instant vision of Neal getting his skinny tie caught in the belt and being eaten by the contraption.

It was just that kind of a day, really. He was beginning to _expect_ the worst.

As a result, he might’ve pulled Neal off the conveyor belt with a bit more force then necessary, and the result of _that_ was both them falling together in a sprawling heap. The law of gravity was in full working order, and so was the law of flailing elbows finding a way to knock the air out of the nearest person. Peter gasped for air as he gingerly rolled Neal off from on top of him. 

There was blood weeping heavily from the blow Neal had taken to the temple, and his lips still had a disturbingly greyish cast to them. But Peter could see he was breathing. He _was_ breathing… On the floor nearby, the dispatcher’s voice came, tinny and indistinguishable, from Peter’s discarded cellphone.

“Neal?”

Neal’s eyes fluttered open. He stared at Peter with a frozen expression that took several long moments to thaw into a faint smile. “I’m never buying ice cream again,” he rasped. “Ever.”

Peter tugged Neal’s already loosened tie over his head, wadding it up and pressing it to his temple. He was too drained to laugh, and definitely too drained have a clever rebuttal ready.

“Peter?”

“Mmm.”

“If this is what you get for loitering, what d’you suppose I’d get for jaywalking?” The faint smile was still there on Neal’s face, pained and sleepy, but oddly ingenuous because of it. His words were slightly slurred, too, reminding Peter of the times he’d seen Neal on painkillers. “I really don’t want to do this again, Peter…” 

There was bin of blankets behind him—rejects, by the looks of the holes and tears—but Peter grabbed a bunch anyway, covering Neal with them. “We’re not doing this again,” he stated unequivocally. “Not if I can help it.” He leaned forward, trying to check Neal’s pupils for uneven dilation.

“Okay,” Neal agreed easily, trustingly, eyelids drooping. 

“Is he okay, Burke?”

Sigel’s voice made them both jolt. 

“He will be,” Peter said firmly.

Neal blinked at him in confusion, shifting his head a bit as if in an attempt to see past him at Sigel.

“ _Hey_ —don’t move,” Peter ordered.

Neal only tried harder to see around him, groaning with the effort.

Peter planted a hand on Neal’s shoulder. “Relax, will ya? It’s just one of the Marshalls.”

“Marshall Sigel,” Sigel introduced himself, standing over Peter’s shoulder. To his credit, his hovering seemed genuinely concerned.

Neal’s eyes widened a fraction, and his hand shot out to grab the lapel of Peter’s suit coat. “But it was a mistake. I wasn’t even loitering. I didn’t _do_ anything, Peter. Didn’t even get the ice cream.” His words might’ve sounded defiant if he weren’t so blatantly desperate.

It took Peter’s sluggish brain to figure out exactly what Neal was so desperate _about_. Then it clicked, and he scrambled to explain. “God—no. No, Neal. He’s the tech who came to override the system and get you out. He’s not here to take you back into custody. The whole system’s gone haywire, anyway, meaning substations are no-go at the moment.”

“So no more interceptors.”

“No more interceptors.” He didn’t add “For now,”and he dared Sigel to add any disclaimers, either.

Neal released Peter’s lapel with a sigh. “I really…really hate those interceptors. After being in-transit everything smells like burnt plastic for _days_. And my brain aches. S’like my skull’s too small.” His hand crept up to rub his temple with vague anxiety.

Peter patted his shoulder. “I know, buddy. I know,” he sympathized, although he didn’t really have a clue what being in-transit felt like. “We’ll get you checked out.” After incarceration Neal was usually a little out of it, but this time Peter was worried both about the possibility of a concussion, and the way Neal was shivering. He looked a little less blue-tinged, at least. 

Sigel took that moment to tactfully make an exit, saying something as he left about going to direct the EMTs.

Peter released a sigh of his own. “I’m sorry about all this, Neal. It shouldn’t have happened.”

“Not your fault.”

“Still…”

“Heard you yelling at the AI.” Neal’s dopey smile widened. “That helped.”

Peter gave an amused grunt. The things Caffrey took comfort in… “You didn’t even hear the part where I promised to dismantle it and send it to the landfill.”

“You should do that,” Neal suggested. “You should definitely do that.”

Peter snagged yet another blanket from the bin to spread across Neal. “Are you kidding me? I’ll never beat El to it. Or June, or Mozzie, for that matter.” 

Neal hummed in drowsy satisfaction just as the EMTs arrived with a clattering gurney in tow.

 

* * *

 

Elizabeth crouched down in front of the couch, pressing a mug into Neal’s hands. 

He peered into the cup. “Hot chocolate?”

“With Dutch cocoa, a bit of cinnamon, and homemade marshmallows.”

Peter observed from the dining room, leaning his hip against the edge of the table and crossing his arms. “Hon, in the middle of a heat wave, I hardly think—”

“—Oh, hush, you.” Elizabeth stood, shooting him a look over her shoulder. “He’s still shivering. And it’s the routine.”

Neal curled his fingers around the mug defensively. He’d been silent at the ER while they’d patched him up. Silent in the car. Silent as he picked at the food El had tried to get him to eat. “Thanks,” he said simply, without any Caffrey swagger or nuance to his tone. He wasn’t so pale anymore, but he looked washed out and depleted of willpower. The droop of his shoulders made him thinner, frailer. It was definitely one of the worst tolls Peter had seen a “simple” one-day incarceration take on him.

Elizabeth hovered for a moment. “You sure I can’t get you to eat something? You usually wolf down everything in a sight.” 

Neal smiled faintly—no con, just gratitude. “Too cold to be hungry yet.” He sipped gingerly at marshmallow foam.

“Well, you just sit there and thaw, then, okay?” She unfurled one of the blankets she’d brought from the closet and wrapped it around his shoulders. 

Peter followed her towards the kitchen.

“Hot chocolate’s a routine?”

She started rinsing the dishes. “It’s silly. It’s just…there’s never much I can do when you bring him back here _shaking_ , feeling miserable—or terrified of being _disintegrated_ by one of those horrible machines. Hot chocolate helps about as much as anything does.” 

“I’m sorry, El. I hate upsetting you like this, but June’s gone on vacation to the Caribbean, and God knows where Moz is, and you’ve always got a way of dealing with…well. Anything.”

Turning off the faucet and wiping her hands on the towel, she put a warm, lavender-soap-scented hand to the side of his face. “If you’d brought him anywhere but straight home, I’d have made you go back and get him.” She searched his eyes. “I hate what those machines do to him, and if the only thing I can do to help is give him a sense of routine afterwards, then I’m more than happy to make hot chocolate.” 

“You know I don’t like it either, hon. If there was anyone way I could change the system, I would.” Back when the idea of the SHCs had been theoretical—heralded as tamper-proof, truly _maximum_ security—Peter had heard things like “no locks to even _be_ tampered with,” and he’d smiled.

How can any of this _fail_ to remind him of that fact.

She stroked the side of his face with her thumb. “Good ideas can go horribly wrong. You couldn’t have known things would go this direction. And there’s not much you could’ve done to stop it if you had.” Her smile was sad, but comforting nonetheless. “And who knows? Maybe this’ll be the catastrophe that makes them reassess the system and make crucial changes.”

“Maybe,” Peter agreed tiredly. “Maybe.”

Her hand slid to his shoulder, her fingers massaging the muscle slowly. “You’re doing everything possible to help him, Peter Burke. Don’t you dare let this eat you up. Neal doesn’t blame you, I don’t blame you—”

The doorbell rang, and somehow it managed to sound angry. Peter snorted softly. “—I blame _myself_ , El. And something tells me Mozzie and I see eye-to-eye on this one issue.”

El gave him a tight-lipped shake of her head, and preceded him to the door. “Mozzie,” she greeted, letting the weariness sap some of her normal cheerfulness.

“Mrs. Suit,” he stepped in, only sparing her and Peter a glance, “Suit.”

“Come on in,” El urged, unnecessarily. “Neal’s on the couch.

It turned out Neal was _asleep_ on the couch, his half-emptied mug settled on a coaster on the coffee table, the blankets pulled up to his chin. 

Mozzie stood still for a long, assessing moment before he turned back to face them with a glower. “Yet again the Machines live up to expectations.” His expectations of “the Machines” had been made crystal clear from day one.

“Yet again,” Peter agreed wearily. If Mozzie had a rant for him, he’d rather have it over and done with.

“I came when I heard about mass-glitching that the Marshall’s Office has _inexplicably_ been unable to get under control,” Mozzie continued tersely. “The first fatality was just reported. A _subject_ in a downtown SHC station had a heart-attack. But the media assures us he was elderly, and already suffering from a myriad of health problems. Clearly, his death had nothing to do with being stuck in one of those icebox death-traps.”

There was a tense silence.

Then, against all odds, Mozzie’s demeanor changed to a guarded yet grudgingly relieved expression. “And I have you to thank, Suit, for not leaving Neal in one of those death-traps.”

“I’d never have just abandoned him to the mercy of a glitching computer,” Peter said tightly, the concession hardly enough to ease his own guilt. “I worked as fast as I could to get him out of there—even before I knew the system was having a meltdown. I’d never leave him there for crimes he didn’t commit.”

“And for crimes he _did_ commit?” Mozzie lifted an eyebrow.

“You know I wouldn’t have a choice. For better or worse, the system’s changed with the times.” Peter forced his jaw to unclench, and against his better judgment grumbled, “Doesn’t mean I like it.”

A rare look of surprise tempered the anger and suspicion in Mozzie’s eyes. Peter was quick to add, with a point of his finger for emphasis: “If you ever repeat that—to anyone, Neal included—I’ll deny it.” 

“You’re part of the System,” Mozzie sympathized (albeit with a sarcastic air of “be it upon your own head” definitely present). “I understand, Suit.” 

“He does what he can, Mozzie,” Elizabeth interjected softly. _He’s a good man_ , her eyes pleaded, to a degree Peter never felt he quite deserved, no matter how hard he tried to meet her expectations of him.

“As do we all,” Mozzie sighed, “as do we all. And on that note… I have _work_ to do.”

Peter rubbed at the aching muscles in his neck. “Yeah. Tell me about it. I have a certain SHC to dissemble, an AI to figuratively strangle…” All of which sounded like far more fun than the inevitable mountain of paperwork he would, in reality, be faced with.

Mozzie paused in his departure to turn back with a sharp and knowing look, and an almost-smile. “I would belay that idea if I were you, Suit.”

“Would you?” Peter huffed. “And here I would’ve thought it would’ve been at the top of your list to take _the Machine_ responsible for doing this to Neal and melt it down into scrap metal, and then take that scrap metal and…” He stopped, staring at Mozzie’s growing smile. “Mozzie, you can’t actually—”

“—Do not make the mistake of applying your own limitations to _me_ , Suit.”

Peter shook his head in. “That’s not the point. This doesn’t need to be gone about like…that. The algorithms are clearly faulty. I intend to take care of things—legally.”

“In other words, you will leave it to the slowly grinding wheels of bureaucracy to ensure that Neal is never again grabbed and dumped in a holding cell without a door, or direct human oversight. Or oxygen.”

“Neither of us can ensure that,” Peter said darkly. Regretfully. 

“I know,” Mozzie agreed morosely. He glanced again at Neal. “Just take good care of Neal.”

“We will, Mozzie, I promise,” Elizabeth assured him, as she followed him to the door.

When she returned to the living room, she slumped into a chair with a sigh. “He looks too thin,” she observed critically of the sleeping CI on their couch. “Thin, and pale.” 

Peter grunted, lost in his own thoughts.

“At least I can do something about the former… How does pot roast sound?”

“Good, hon.”

“Oh, Peter,” she leaned forward, snagging him by the sleeve and pulling him over to sit on the arm of the chair, “stop it. You heard Moz. _He_ doesn’t blame you, either—so it’s official. We’ll carry on, and do what we can.” She shrugged, and leaned sideways against him. “He’ll get through it, and someday that anklet will come off, and he’ll be a free man.”

Satchmo came sleepily wandering in, tail wagging absently, then with more hope when he caught sight of Neal: helpless, and at his own level. Neal made a faint noise of protest as a cold dog nose nuzzled into the warmth of his neck, but he didn’t wake up, even when Satchmo arranged himself broadside to the couch in order to be as close as possible. It was his favorite pseudo-snuggling method that didn’t involve _technically_ getting up on the furniture.

Not that either of them was in a mood to scold him—even if he did gradually smuggle half of his butt up onto the edge of the seat cushion, tail thumping in contentment.

It was good. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good. Some things changed, and some things stayed the same. They’d dodge the bullets as they came, and take the breaks they could get. They’d be content with pot roast, and Elizabeth’s coddling, and an old dog that refused to learn new tricks.


End file.
